


Boy

by FayKing7



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Eventual Fluff, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24197221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayKing7/pseuds/FayKing7
Summary: After finding Jesse overdosing in his apartment, Walt takes him into his "care" to try and make a more competent lab partner. After Walt's unorthodox efforts fail, a string of awful events soon follow.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

"Jesse. You need to eat."

Jesse groaned, slumping over in his chair and bringing his hands to his face. He lolled his head in a lazy attempt to refuse. The simple thought of putting something in his mouth made his stomach lurch. Hot, clammy liquid with chunks of god knows what. Thick contents sitting heavy in his guts. He'd fuck WALT before eating this mystery meal. "You know I couldn't eat if I wanted to," he said, shaking his head in remorse.

"Appetite or not, this is non-negotiable," Walt said. "You need your strength." He nudged the bowl of stew closer to his partner, brows raisedand smiling a little. Jesse peeked at the food from between his fingers.

Residing in Walt's apartment for four days now was proving to be the seventh circle of hell. His host had been spouting bullshit from the beginning. For example, about how he's "doing him a favor" and "showing him kindness" and "nursing him back to health so he doesn't keel over and die". Jesse wasn't a hospital patient, he was a hostage. He knew how to take care of himself abd didn't need his ex-teacher being creepy and overbearing. Walt hadn't even let Jesse go outside the entire time he stayed under his roof. That shit is NOT normal.

Walt's shuddering sigh brought Jesse's focus back to the predicament at hand. Rubbing his bald head, he said, "I'm not gonna argue with you. Just eat a few spoonfuls, at LEAST."

"I already ate something today. I'm tellin' you, man... I feel dizzy..."

"Yes, you ate," Walt gave him an accusatory look, "and then you threw it all up. Massive waste. I made sure to make this with only soothing foods, just for you. Eh?" He threw Jesse another small smile, as if hoping to impress him.

Jesse gave the bowl a doubtful gaze. The scent smelled a bit too rich for "soothing"...

"Fuck it." Jesse lifted the spoon to his lips and took a sip of the fluid. His throat burned the second the soup slid down his esophagus. He shook his head, shivering as the harsh temperature triggered violent chills. "Jesus dude, what is IN this?" he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He bit back a gag.

Walt's smile evaporated in a millisecond. He looked down, offended. "It has rice, steamed vegetables, and chicken." His words dragged in a lazy list. He ate a spoonful himself, half-lidded eyes trained on Jesse. He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin, maintaining his smug stare.

Jesse shook his head again, hugging his fragile self. He shook like a twig about to snap in a fierce gale. "I--"

"No," Walt interrupted.

Jesse looked up, brows furrowed and mouth still open mid-sentence.

"What? You've proved you can eat more. So go on." Walt's vacant eyes mever faltered.

"No, I can't. I-I'm gonna go, like, sleep this off."

Before Jesse could even get his ass in the air, a hand clamped down on his elbow and forced him back in his chair. He looked down at the hand, then up at its owner, a brow cocked and movements slow. "Mr. White, what...?"

Walt was glowering at him with some kind of intense hate. He exposed his lower teeth, a dead look in his eyes. His free fist clenched his poon, the knuckles pure white. Jesse could SEE his blood pressure spiking. "Eat the fucking soup, Jesse." He released him and sat back in a comfortable position, now with a "reassuring" smile on his face.

"You good, Mr. White?" Jesse asked, cautious not to look away for a moment. He grimaced at how the tremors infected his voice. His arm ached a little, so he pulled it under the table to give it a tender rub. Jesus.

Walt massaged his temples as if he had a headache, too. "I'm fine," he said in a short, clipped tone.

"Can't I have a slice of pizza, or something?" Jesse said in a low voice, fidgeting and not making eye contact. He made sure Walt couldn't grab at him again, and braced himself to get shouted at.

A venomous gaze glowered over the frame of Walt's glasses. "I am not ordering a pizza. What makes you think you warrant special privilege?"

Jesse shrugged, "I almost died, or whatever. Aren't you the one who wants to, like, nurture me 'n shit?" His temples throbbed when he raised his voice, but the dude was being a serious dick bag.

Walt dropped his spoon with a stiff glare like the drama queen he was. The clatter of the utensil against the bowl made Jesse wince. "What," Walt asked, "is the difference between eating pizza and eating soup? Either way, you don't wanna throw up, correct?"

Uncomfortable, Jesse shifted in his chair, but kept his gaze steady. "Pizza tastes good going down."

An incredulous scoff was all Jesse earned from him. "Ah," Walt said, eyes to the heavens and cold grin widening. "Pizza tastes good. Right, right, of course." He narrowed his eyes and leaned in across the small table till Jesse recoiled a fraction of an inch. "Well, you know something, Jesse? Can I tell you something? Pizza isn't the only thing that tastes good. Did you ever think of that?"

"Yo, if you gave my H back I wouldn't be such a fucking burden. I'd be out that door so damn fast-- and not getting lectured by some old dude! Oh, and what happened to your dad voice, anyway, huh? Were you just buttering me up this whole time, or some shit?"

"You don't need pizza and dope to recover! Oh wait, that's right, the baby junkie wants his heroin back. Eating hurts his wittle stomach, so he'll starve instead of doing something like a man for once in his goddamned life!" 

Walt stood up, the table clattering. He slammed his hand down in front of Jesse, making the smaller man flinch. "I hope you realize that without me, you would be dead right now. Because of my choice to help you, you are alive. I think the least you could do is eat the fucking food. Can you do that for me?"

"Listen, dude--"

"ANSWER ME!" Walt yanked Jesse up by his collar, choking him.

Jesse tossed the steaming soup all over Walt's chest.

The burned man screamed as he stumbled back, knocking his chair over and clutching his shirt. Jesse jumped up as Walt reached for him, his shrieks of agony now those of rage.

Jesse clambered across the table and tackled Walt. A furious shout tore through the dining room as he landed punch after barbaric punch on the older man. 

Walt, no longer stunned, throttled Jesse's neck. He struggled to pin him to the floor, striking his nose with his free hand.

The two men writhed on the ground, grunting and snarling. Jesse's vision was blotchy and he wasn't even half aware of the blood and agony coating his face. He was drunk on adrenaline and pure scorching rage.

Jesse was back on top, his hands clamped down on Walt's throat. The man was drooling and wheezing, red dripping from his lips as he pawed at the grip. 

His brain clearing a bit, Jesse was now aware of the moisture stemming from his eyes and dripping down his nose. He saw his dirty fingernails, developing tunnel vision and a locked stare. Every fiber of strength in his body dissolved. His muscles went limp, burning, and barren. 

Walt scurried back, his booming, wet coughs stinging Jesse's temples. He couldn't bear to look at the damage he caused, although he knew the douche deserved it. Jesse's knuckles were throbbing and his nose felt as if a steaming rod was jabbed up a nostril, penetrating his skull. He grazed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. He could feel himself making noises but couldn't hear them; he didn't care how loud his pitiful whimpers were sure to be. He shook his head. None of this felt real. Everything he could see was fuzzy and vibrating. The vertigo eased Jesse into a blackout, Walt's choking fading along with him.


	2. Chapter 2

Jesse blinked. Mucus encrusted his lashes, forcing him to rub his eyes to open them. Agony swam through his nerves in every place Walt struck him. He moaned, brushing his fingertips over his face with care and caution. Jesus. How long was I out? A fleeting wish for a watch crossed his mind. Sitting up, Jesse noticed his headache was gone. Unfortunately, the dizziness lingered as if he needed to wipe down his eyeballs.

Though he couldn't see a foot from his face, it was obvious he was outside. Jesse's body was sprawled in an awkward, pathetic heap over the stairs leading to Walt's front door. The depths of night were warm, offering the bloodied kid an iota of comfort and floods of mercy. 

Wiping his eyes again, Jesse staggered upward. His nose bursted with pain, making his eyes water. He shook his head to stop any potential crying. Prideful aggravation caught back up with him as he stared at the ugly wooden door with a set jaw. He snorted, priming his entire body to get ready to throw hands again with his newfound energy. 'You done it now, fuckin' baby boomer. Oh yeah, you're goin' down! Nobody messes with the cap'n!' Jesse grinned. He twisted the doorknob. 

Nothing.

'Okay, Mr. White.' Jesse plunged his hand into his hoodie pocket, which turned out to be empty. He searched one jean pocket, then the other. As he found his keys gone from even his back pockets, an aggressive lance of anxiety sliced up into his chest. His lungs constricted. Upon second inspection, his fingers brushed against a thin, sharp surface. He jumped three feet in the air. He froze, his face now heating up.

Jesse wrangled the object out. It was a square of folded paper, one which he'd never seen, let alone put in his pocket. He felt dumb, releasing a strangled, breathless laugh as he unfolded it. The cheap graphite with which the message was written was as pale as the cursed paper. He had to hold the message up to the nearest curtain-covered window to see even a letter. After much more blinking and squinting and adjusting, the note read: 

'If you want to leave so badly, then by all means. Go home. But if I were you, I wouldn't consider this a victory; next time I find you overdosing on heroin, you're on your own. Gale makes a much more efficient partner anyways.'

The sadistic, cocky nazi even had pristine handwriting so infuriating it was unreal. Jesse crumpled the paper in his grasp and beat the shit out of the wall with a loathsome cry. His chest ached from the viscous assault by conflicting spears of outrage and dread.

"MR. WHITE!" Jesse shouted, his voice shrill. He pounded at the door with both hands as desperation drove him mad. "Come on, man! I need my keys to get into my fuckin' house. Bitch!" There wasn't even a stir inside the apartment. He yearned to get a look inside and at a clock. Jesse crouched down in an embarrassing position to steal a glance under the curtain. He huffed when nothing was within sight. He felt hopelessly hopeless. He couldn't breathe.

"...Mr. White?" 

Nothing.

Cursing under his breath, Jesse turned his back to the house, defeated and with his head hung low. He whirled around to deliver one last kick to the door. Once he attacked the wood, uttering the word "Fucker!", he turned back around to the street. 

Jesse took a deep breath through his nose. He sat down on the steps, his vision darkening till it was damn near gone. His head was gonna detach from his neck and float away if he had stood for much longer. He cradled his face in his hands, swaying as his eyeballs fluttered back into his skull. He had to shake himself every minute so as not to pass out. He itched to get up and go somewhere, but standing so soon after getting knocked proved to be an awful idea. 

How am I supposed to get home, dick? Jesse thought. His apartment was a long, ridiculous walk from here. The "journey" was much farther than he could ever travel on foot. On instinct, he patted his pockets for his phone, then paused for a moment. His anger reignited at the reminder of Walt's assholery. He shook it off a moment later, determined to stay mature. He concluded that he had to walk to Skinny Pete or Badger's house. Calling them was out of the question, obvious to anyone with a brain.

Jesse took a deep, thorough breath to calm himself. He threw on his hood, buried his hands in his pockets, and began the uncertain trek into the night. He wobbled on his feet for a moment, but soon stabilized himself. What he wouldn't give for just a bump of meth... or heroin... or hell, even weed would be a blessing right about now. He yearned for a dopamine explosion with all the fierceness in his heart. He was fucking sick of the H withdrawal Walt had been forcing him through. Tormented, he hoped against hope that he had something at home. His mind occupied itself with endless "if only's" the entire walk, tanking his mood in a steady downfall. His slumping shoulders also proved that he had only made himself feel worse.

Jesse the airhead was zoned-out beyond belief the entire twenty minute walk. So geeked, in fact, that he almost didn't notice that he already arrived at Skinny Pete's doorstep. He wanted to wear a proud grin for outsmarting his rival. But... for some reason, his heart rate plummeted at the thought of confronting Pete. His arm had stopped mid-knock, fist hanging in the air, and he wiped his face with his free hand to compose himself. 

"Hey Skinny Pete, open up man! It's Jesse!" Jesse pounded at the door, squashing any doubt that may have been festering in his head. He didn't expect the powerful longing to finally see Pete's scrawny, smiley face again. God, Jesse was almost vibrating with how excited he got himself. Maybe he'd even be offered a hug... A slow, eager smile crawled onto his face. He awaited the tell-tale thumping of his friend approaching the door. He thrummed with nervous, excited energy. 

When the sounds of his footsteps never came, Jesse wilted a little. He rapped at the wood again, then pressed the broken doorbell.

"Dude, wake up!" Jesse knocked till his knuckles were so sore he clutched his hand, wincing. He then grabbed the porch railing, balanced on one foot, and kicked the door a couple times for good measure. After several long, long beats of silence, he wondered if Pete was even home. He glanced over into his driveway, and saw his scuffed Ford Thunderbird parked in the dirt. It sat there, serene and smug as if it were laughing at him. He wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or betrayed. 

Jesse huffed, dropping down to the ground with a heavy thud and a childish pout. He wasn't being dramatic; no, he just needed to rest so the spinning in his head eased off. Yeah. He ran his long fingernails along the grooves in the wooden planks, uprooting weeks of dirt. Unless he was in a severe fucked-up state, there was no way Pete couldn't hear him. Jesse tried in vain to keep away the stabs of sorrow and confusion. He wiped underneath his eyes, staring at his fidgeting cleaning with intense vigilance. He feared that looking at anything else would somehow trigger tears to really fall. No way would he cry right now. Not over something so stupid, and not on his best friend's porch in the middle of the night as he frowned and played with dirt. Could he be any more pathetic?

Restlessness wormed its way into Jesse's brain, forcing him back on his feet. He shook his head, trying again to stay in control of his emotions. He knew full well that it would be fruitless, but he still knocked three more quiet, half-hearted times. 

As Jesse turned his back on the door to start pacing, a thud resonated from inside. 

Jesse froze. He didn't even dare to breathe.

Another shifting noise churned from the house, and Jesse leapt to the door in an ecstatic flurry. He pounded at the barrier, shouting his friend's name. He was frantic. Desperate. His eyes watered and heart throbbed. Covering his mouth so as not to laugh like a dope, he stepped back, so energized he could only see black splotches. 

Jesse's heart rate began calming down. He gained feeling again. The tension in his muscles relaxed and left him exhausted. His heavy arms toppled to his sides. Only the vertigo stayed. He must have hallucinated it.

Pete wasn't there.

As the moments ticked by, Jesse's pacing got more and more panicked. He used a massive amount of energy not to hyperventilate. Still pacing in a tight circle, he scratched at his scalp and neck with erratic fervor. He chanted a mantra at himself. His inner monologue ordered him to calm down and get a grip. His emotions were only becoming more unstable. Good god, his head ached. He felt himself slipping again, losing touch with reality as if his mind was going numb. 

As chills wracked his body, Jesse toppled to his hands and knees on the porch. Nausea exploded in his gut and throat. Fear lurching inside him, he scurried to the drop-off, splintering his palms. He heaved, vomiting almost exclusively stomach acid and water. The toxic concoction spilled over the side of the porch and into the foliage on the ground. He gagged again, and again. Almost every exhale triggered some sort of bodily fluid to seep from his mouth. 

Jesse groaned in agony, collapsing onto the jagged wood. "Fuck!" he cried. He couldn't care less about his sobs. His body was boiling. He wanted to rip off his clothes, his skin sticky and wrapped too small around him. He curled up in a tight fetal position, his head pulsing. Staying still helped a little, allowing him to listen to his own breathing. Despite his eyelids clamped shut, he could feel his eyes begin rolling back into his skull. He didn't fight it. He welcomed the numbing darkness, calming down as his heart rate became a steady beat. Jesse fell asleep on his best friend's front porch like a feral dog.


End file.
